


I'd Been Gone A Thousand Miles

by thefairfleming



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:40:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23916190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefairfleming/pseuds/thefairfleming
Summary: Sansa's farm at the Vale is one of the few places untouched by the wights and war. Or it was until she opened the door to find a bleeding an unconscious Jon Snow on her porch.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 26
Kudos: 234





	I'd Been Gone A Thousand Miles

**Author's Note:**

> This is a repost of a fic I originally posted in 2012/maybe 2013? I took down most of my Jon/Sansa Fic for Various Reasons, but recently found this one again, remembered how much I enjoyed writing it, and thought, "Well, now that we're actually in a Weird Apocalyptic Scenario, maybe I'll repost." ;) It was originally split into chapters, but I like it better as one bigger fic that's more a series of vignettes. Plz to enjoy Zombieless Zombie AU: Redux!

Jon leans in the doorway of the kitchen, watching her.

Sansa's back is to him as she fries up eggs and bacon on the stove, her long red hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, and as Jon takes in her tight jeans and bare feet, something twists in his gut.

_His wife._

That's what she says she is, and while Jon's mind is still muddled and confused, he can't deny that his body seems to remember her. She's wearing an oversized plaid shirt, and even though she still hasn't turned around, Jon knows that the blues and greens will make her eyes look even bluer. Was that his shirt? It looks a little too big to be, but then the clothes he'd found in the closet were also a little loose on him. Again, there's that feeling like something is right out of his grasp, memories close enough to touch. She seems familiar, but there's something about the word "wife" that sits heavily in his chest.

In his high chair, the baby babbles, smacking a spoon against the plastic tray, and Jon glances over at him. Ned. Another name that feels achingly familiar and right, but looking at that kid...with his auburn hair, fair skin, and big blue eyes, Ned doesn't look a damn thing like Jon, but then he does look just like Sansa, so who knows?

Still, no matter how fucked up he'd been- and the pain still throbbing in his head, the big white bandage still covering his ribs reminds him that he'd been pretty fucked up indeed- shouldn't he remember his own kid?

"Oh!" he hears Sansa gasp, and when he looks back to her, she's turned around, the skillet in one hand, spatula in the other. "You're up."

Nodding, Jon unfolds his arms and takes a few hesitant steps into the kitchen. Maybe he'd just surprised her, but it seems like more than that. He could swear she's nervous.

But then she just smiles and gestures toward the table with the skillet. "Well, have a seat and I'll fix you a plate."

"You don't have to," he tells her, but she only shakes her head.

"Didn't go through all that trouble patching you up to have you undo all my hard work reaching for a plate or something. Please. Sit."

So Jon sits, taking the chair opposite Ned's high chair. The baby watches him, and while he doesn't smile or look all that excited to see Jon, he doesn't shriek like Jon's a stranger, either.

_My son_ , Jon thinks, trying out the words on Ned like he keeps trying to make _my wife_ fit Sansa. And once again, there's that slight tug in his mind, a resistance to the very idea of it. But then Sansa places a plate in front of him and cup of coffee, and when Jon takes a sip, it's hot and dark, just the littlest bit of sugar in it, and he knows this is how he's always liked his coffee. Isn't that the kind of thing a wife would know?

"How's your head?" Sansa asks as sits next to him. He was right about how bright the plaid makes her eyes look.

"Still hurts like a bit-," he eyes flick to Ned, "Uh, pretty bad," he amends, and a tiny smile quirks her lips.

"He's only seven months old. The occasional curse word won't scar him."

"Seven months," Jon says, nodding slowly. "So that was after...everything happened."

Sansa doesn't answer right away, turning to Ned to wipe bits of scrambled egg from his face. Only once she's done that does she says, "So you remember that much?"

Turning the mug in his hands, Jon studies the table, his head aching. White Walkers, Wights, a clear memory of a body burning in front of him, his own hands encased in black gloves...it's a haze past that, a black hole until the moment he woke up in sheets that smelled like spring and Sansa gazing down at him. His name, a vague idea of what's going on in the world, but nothing else, and it's all Jon can do not to slam his coffee down on the table in frustration.

Sansa must sense that because she reaches out, one hand curling around his wrist. "It's alright," she says softly, but the moment her fingers touch his skin, Jon nearly jolts out of his seat.

Maybe that's why his voice is sharp when he snaps, "No, it's not _alright_. Why can I remember that, but not my own fucking wife? My kid?" He gestures at Ned who makes a fussy sound at Jon's tone, and Jon immediately feels like shit.

"I'm sorry," he says as Sansa rises and scoops the baby out of his high chair, making soothing clucking sounds as she bounces him against her chest.

"It's alright," she says again, but her back is to him as the baby gazes resentfully at Jon over her shoulder.

"You shouldn't force it," she says at last, turning to look at him. "Your memories. They'll come when they come." She pulls her lower lip between her teeth, and the second she does, it's like a blow to his chest. He's seen her do that before. He _knows_ he has. And watching her do it now, he has a sudden desire to get up and pull that perfect lip between his own teeth.

He must have done that before. They're married, or so she says. They've made a child together. But there's something about the thought of kissing her that sets his heart pounding.

Sansa stands there in the kitchen, the warm light of late morning turning her hair to fire, and even though it makes him feel like a goddamn pervert, Jon tries to remember kissing her, touching her. Fucking her.

He can imagine that just fine, but that's what it feels like: a daydream. It doesn't have that same visceral punch as watching her chew her lower lip. It's not a _memory._

But if he's not her husband, then who the fuck is he? And why is he here?

## **

_He's going to figure it out._

Sansa had known this couldn't last long, but she'd hoped to at least buy herself a few weeks, maybe as long as a month. Long enough to figure out just what the hell she was going to do.

But she sees the look on his face as he looks at Ned, sees the way he looks at her, and she knows he's not convinced. Jon Snow was always smart, always quick, and he's already asking too many questions.

There'd been his obvious frustration at breakfast, and then later that afternoon, he'd found her in the laundry room and asked why there weren't any pictures of them in the house.

Sansa had barely paused folding towels as she'd concocted a breezy story of moving a few years back and losing a bunch of photographs and mementos. She'd even managed to conjure up a wistful expression as she'd talked about what a shame it was, how nice their wedding photos had turned out, how handsome he'd looked in his tux.

She had no idea if he believed her or not, but he'd nodded and left her alone, which Sansa decided was enough for now. She also sent up a silent prayer of thanks that she'd burned all the pictures of her and Harry after he'd died. Sansa had gotten to be something of an accomplished liar, but explaining away pictures of her wedding to another man might have been even beyond her.

Of course, she does have a picture of her with Jon. They'd been kids, the photo taken the last Christmas before everything had gone to shit. Before Jon had joined the army, before her disastrous engagement to Joffrey Lannister. Before her father, and Robb, and Rickon, and Bran...

Now, as Sansa rocks Ned, getting ready to put him down for the night, she feels a lump in her throat that hasn't been there in years. After so much loss, she'd thought she was immune to missing anyone anymore. But that was before she'd opened her door to find Jon Snow bleeding and unconscious on her front porch and a decade's worth of old wounds had reopened.

How had he even found her? And why?

Ned nuzzles closer to her, sighing as his eyes begin to droop shut, and Sansa ducks her head to smell the sweet, baby scent of him.

_For Ned_ , she thought as she pulled the fragments of bullets out of Jon's side, taping a bandage over her messy work. _For Ned_ , when she'd pulled the black leathers that marked Jon as a member of the Night's Watch, the elite force fighting the White Walkers, off his inert body and thrown them in an old oil barrel out back to burn. _For Ned_ , when Jon had opened his eyes, asked who she was, and she'd said, "Your wife."

Her farm at the Eyrie was one of the last safe places in all of Westeros, the only place untouched by White Walkers, wights, and war. And while there had been a time she'd called Jon Snow brother, she knew his loyalty now lay with the Night's Watch. If this was a wight-free zone, he'd report it to his commander. They could evacuate people here, and even though she knew it was selfish, all Sansa could think of was all those men in King's Landing with their hungry eyes. Men, people, pressing in on her and this place where she'd finally managed to make a home. The one peaceful place she'd known since she left Winterfell.

She wasn't going to let that happen, and Jon losing his memory had seemed like a blessing. It hadn't even been about letting him think she was his wife so much as she'd wanted him to think Ned was his son. Sansa may not have seen Jon Snow in years, but she was confident that she knew the kind of man he was. Sansa was only a foster sister, and they'd never even been all that close. But if he thought Ned was his own flesh and blood...

But that had been an easier lie to tell when he was unconscious and lying in a distant bedroom. Now he was awake, prowling the house, asking questions, and unsettling her more than she'd bargained on.

Part of it was that she was unused to having anyone in the house besides her and Ned. She'd been barely two months pregnant when Harry, hunting even after she'd told him he was too damn drunk to go out, had fallen off a cliff and left her alone to raise a child- to _have_ a child- without him. She'd gotten used to the only footsteps on the stairs being hers. But now Jon was here, and even though he'd only been up and moving around for a day, she felt almost painfully aware of him. He wasn't as big a man as Harry had been (and the clothes she'd given him to wear were nearly hanging off of him, requiring another lie), but his presence seemed to fill the house more than her late husband's ever had, and Sansa had spent the entire day feeling jumpy and...strange.

Maybe it was the way he'd looked at her in the kitchen this morning, the obvious curiosity in his dark eyes. He remembers her, she's sure of that, but the idea of being married to her is clearly not sitting quite right with him yet, and as Sansa lays a sleeping Ned in his crib, her mouth feels dry, her pulse fast.

It's a feeling that only increases when she goes to her bedroom and finds Jon standing at the edge of her bed.

He's looking around the room, and Sansa knows what he's seeing: there's no sign that a man sleeps here, no clothes hung behind the door, no shoes beside the bed. Her dresser is cluttered with pretty glass bottles, all of them perfume, no cologne or aftershave. If he looks in the bathroom, there may be an old electric razor of Harry's somewhere in the back of the medicine cabinet, but other than that, it's clear this is a woman's domain only.

Heart still hammering, Sansa tries to sound casual as she asks, "Are you sure you're ready to sleep in here tonight?"

His hands clutching the high wooden footboard of the bed, Jon turns to look over his shoulder at her. She tries to remember if he was this handsome when they were growing up, but then, she'd barely noticed Jon Snow back then. Her mind had been far away from Winterfell, longing for the day she could go to King's Landing, be the girl she'd always thought she deserved to be.

Instead, she was here, on a lonely mountainside in the Vale, an ancient farm house practically falling down around her, a fatherless child to raise, the world gone to hell all around her, and this man standing in her bedroom, watching her with eyes that are familiar and completely foreign all at once.

Sansa suddenly feels her loneliness pressing in on her from all sides. For the first time since she told him he was her husband, she wishes it were true.

It would feel so good, she thinks, to walk into his arms, to rest her head against the solid wall of his chest and let him wrap his arms around her. She's been tired, and scared, and alone for so long now. The simple, animal pleasure of being touched by another human being is all she wants in the world right now, and the need is so deep, so intense, that she knows she can't give into it. The lie is bad enough as is; sleeping with him would only make it messier and more complicated in the end.

"Why wouldn't I be ready?" Jon asks, his voice low and Sansa turns to the dresser so that he won't see her face. She gives an easy shrug, as tough the question doesn't really matter.

"You know how I am when I sleep." Looking back at him, Sansa screws up her face in an expression of chagrin. "Oh, shit, except you may not remember. You always used to joke that I seemed to grow extra limbs in the night, and I just didn't want to accidentally smack you before you were completely healed up."

Nodding toward the bandage underneath his gray t-shirt, she adds, "And you need rest. I'm always up with Ned. Just seems like a few more nights in the guest room won't hurt."

He's still watching her with that little frown between his brows, the corners of his mouth turning down a little, and even though she knows she's pushing it, Sansa puts on her best coquettish smile and adds, "Besides, you hardly remember me. Wouldn't do to have you spending the night with a stranger."

Jon's eyes move over her face, and for a second, Sansa's afraid she's pressed her luck too far.

But then he steps closer. "You don't feel like a stranger," he tells her, and Sansa is sure her breath actually stops.

His eyes are dark, his hair shaggy around his face, and Sansa wonders how the stubble on his jaw would feel under her palms. Luckily, before she can do something so stupid as touch him, Jon is moving past her and back toward the hallway.

As Sansa hears the guest room door close, she gives a sigh of what she tells herself is relief.

## ***

Every day, Jon walks around the farm and wills it to feel familiar.

It never does.

After a week the ache in his head is nearly gone, but the buckshot he took to the ribs still hurts more often than not. He's made Sansa tell him the story more than once now- some asshole trying to rob the place, Jon scaring him off but not before taking a shot to the side and a blow to the head- and it still doesn't feel right. There's a distant memory in the back of his brain of walking, walking and walking, trying to get up this mountain, trying to get to...what? Her? That feels almost right, but if she isn't who she says she is- if _he_ isn't who she says he is- then why was he trying so hard to find her?

After that first night, he sleeps in the guest room. He's not even sure why he went to her room _(their room, if she's telling the truth, it's their room_ ). Maybe he wanted to see if he could shake her. But she had shrugged so easily about him staying there, had even begun unbuttoning the bottom few buttons on her shirt, and it was Jon who'd lost his nerve in the end.

Lying next to her all night would've been a special kind of torture, and even as Jon tells himself that if she is his wife, he has every right to touch her, something in him still balks at the idea. Something is off here, and until he figures out what it is, he needs to keep his hands off her.

That's easier said than done though, especially on the days he walks in and sees her bending over Ned's swing in those jeans, or hears her singing in the shower, or watches her hang up laundry to dry, her long red hair blowing in the breeze, a clothespin between those full, pink lips. He's haunted by thoughts of her underneath him, on top of him, curled in his lap as he moves inside of her, but the more he lets those images unspool in his mind, the more they feel like wishful thinking, not remembering.

He's been there nearly a month before he touches her.

It's an innocent thing at first. They're on the porch, Jon replacing a missing railing despite Sansa's protests that he'll only overexert himself. But by then, his ribs itch more than they ache, and he's tired of wandering around, feeling useless, when she clearly needs help around the place. Still, as he hammers, she sweeps the front steps, more to keep an eye on him than because the steps actually need it, Jon thinks.

Ned sleeps peacefully in his bouncy seat just by the front door, oblivious to all the noise. For some reason, that makes Jon smile. _Tough little kid already_ , he thinks, a strange mix of pride and longing filling his chest. If Sansa is lying then Ned isn't his, and Jon is surprised by just how much that thought stings. Something about the idea of having a child strikes some deep chord in Jon that he hadn't known was there, and he pauses, pushing his sweaty hair back from his forehead with the back of one hand.

"I could cut it for you," Sansa says, pulling him out of his thoughts.

She's stopped sweeping and is leaning her chin on the top of the broom. "Your hair. If it's bothering you."

It's warm today, and she's wearing this pretty blue sundress nearly the same color as the sky. It flutters against her legs as Jon thinks it over for a second before nodding. "Yeah, okay. That would be good."

Propping the broom against the porch, Sansa goes back inside and when she comes out, she's carrying a pitcher in one hand, a pair of scissors and a comb in the other. Gesturing to one of the chairs against the wall, she says, "Pull that over closer to edge."

Jon does as she asks, and before he sits, he grabs the edge of his t-shirt, tugging it over his head. 

She stops, and he could swear there's a faint blush in her cheeks. But then she's moving toward him, all business, telling him to lean forward.

The water she dumps over his head is warm, and Jon can't help but sigh with pleasure as she begins to work a comb through his hair.

She works quickly and efficiently, and Jon lets himself enjoy the feel of her hands on him, the sweet, soapy smell of her, the soft press of her breasts against his back and shoulders as she moves around him.

Little bits of dark hair hit the porch, and every time she pauses to brush the hair from his chest, Jon's heart gives a painful leap. By the time she moves in front of him, he's already hard, and while she doesn't look down, he thinks she has to know.

_I don't want it to be a lie._

The thought is abrupt and surprising, and it makes Jon take a deep breath through his nose. He's spent the past few weeks trying to prove Sansa isn't really his wife, but why? When it would be so nice- _so fucking nice_ \- if she were?

"Do you do this for me a lot?" he asks, aware of how pained his voice sounds.

She's right in front of him now, her eyes not meeting his as she carefully combs and cuts. "All the time."

Jon has no idea what comes over him, but before he can let himself question it too much, he reaches out and grabs her waist, pulling her down onto his lap. She gives a little gasp and the scissors fall to the porch, her hands instinctively resting on his bare shoulders for balance.

"And do I do this a lot?" he asks, one of his hands resting on her hip, the other clutching the side of the seat.

Sansa perches on his lap, knees planted on either side of his hips, every muscle in her body tense. "All the time," she says again, but her voice is tight. "And I always tell you how stupid it is to do that to a woman with scissors in her hands."

She did that in her bedroom that night, too, made a joke that was meant to feel comfortable and familiar. Jon hadn't quite believed it then, and he's not sure he believes it now, either.

"So this is a regular thing, then. You on my lap. Me thinking about kissing you."

Other than a slight flutter of her lashes, Sansa's expression doesn't change. "Yeah."

He clutches her hip tighter. "Then why are my hands shaking?"

Not answering, Sansa only breathes harder, her pupils wide and Jon lets go of the chair to cuff a hand around the back of her neck.

If he kisses her, he'll know. Surely, the taste of his own wife isn't something a man forgets, but Jon knows that if he says he's only doing this to prove a point, he's the biggest fucking liar of all. He's wanted his mouth on her since that first morning in the kitchen. Maybe from the first moment he woke up and saw her standing over him and knew that somehow, he'd come home.

Sansa's fingers tighten on his shoulders, her nails nearly biting into his skin, and Jon bucks his hips up against hers, watching her eyes go darker and hazier. He won't be able to stop at kissing her, he knows, and he has a sudden image of her in this chair, her dress pushed up to her waist while he kneels between her legs, his mouth moving over her underneath the clear blue sky, her hands tight in his hair.

She's just begun to lower her face when Ned gives a low cry from his seat.

Pulling back, Sansa nearly scrambles off his lap. Jon had been so focused on her that he'd nearly forgotten about the baby, and from the look on Sansa's face, he thinks she may have felt the same. Watching Jon, Sansa swallows hard and pushes her hair back with one hand before going over to her son.

When Jon turns in his seat, he sees that Ned is more irritated than upset, but Sansa still scoops him up, pressing him tight to her.

"He's probably hungry," she says, and then she's gone back into the house, the screen door slamming behind her as Jon sits there and tries to slow the racing of his heart. 

## ***

Storms come suddenly to the Vale, and even after years of living here, Sansa's still not used to it. And it hadn't even looked like rain earlier in the day. There had been a few clouds, but not enough to deter Sansa from hanging up her laundry that afternoon. She hadn't even bothered to put the cow in the barn as the sun had begun to set.

Around supper time, a breeze started up, smelling faintly of ozone, but there still hadn't been many clouds, and Sansa had figured there was just a brief rainstorm nearby. And if she was honest, she'd been too preoccupied with not looking at Jon, not accidentally touching Jon, not curling up in Jon's lap as she'd done a few days before and letting him finish what he'd started.

There hadn't been a moment, it seemed, since that afternoon that she hadn't thought of him, his shoulders underneath her hands, his fingers curled around the nape of her neck, his lips inches from hers. If Ned hadn't cried...

But he had, and Sansa hadn't let another moment like that happen between her and Jon Snow. She'd been sure to keep her distance, grateful he seemed determined to do the same, and tried to carry on with business as usual.

Ned is already in bed asleep when the lights first flicker.

Jon's washing the dishes, Sansa cleaning the table, and they both glance up.

There are large parts of Westeros that lost power over a year ago and never got it back. The Vale has been luckier, but any time there's a storm, the electricity goes.

Sure enough, just as a big gust of wind rattles the window panes and the first droplet of rain splatter against the roof, the house is plunged into darkness and Sansa tosses her towel down. " _Fuck_."

Turning off the faucet, Jon turns toward her even as she yanks her jacket off the back of the kitchen door. "What is it?"

"The damn cow is still out," she tells him, pulling the jacket's hood over her head. "And Vale storms tend to have lots of lightning. Just...I'll be right back."

With that, she dashes out the door.

The rain is pouring down by the time she reaches the field, her poor cow watching her with big, panicked eyes as Sansa moves closer, and it's only then that Sansa realizes that in her rush to keep her one source of milk from getting zapped, she forgot to grab a rope.

She's muttered at least four curse words under her breath when she turns to see Jon jogging through the rain toward her, rope in hand, and the relief that washes over her almost makes her giddy.

"Thought you'd need this," he calls over the rain, and she nods, even as she worries that he's not wearing a jacket. The rain is brutally cold, the wind whipping faster now, and Jon's dressed in just jeans and a black t-shirt. But if the cold bothers him, it doesn't show, and together, they put the rope around the cow and through a method of pushing, pulling, shoving, and yelling, get the animal back in the barn.

When the stall door closes behind the cow, Sansa leans back against it, taking a deep breath. The barn is warm and smells pleasantly of hay, and while she couldn't possibly get any wetter, she wants to take a minute before she rushes back out into the storm.

Jon leans against the empty opposite stall. "I checked on Ned," he tells her. "Before coming out with the rope. Sound asleep."

Sansa gives a little laugh. "Once he's out, he's down until at least midnight. Kid can sleep through absolutely anything. Just like-,"

_His father_ , she'd almost said, and it was true, both Harry and Ned had slept through storms and power outages. But Harry wasn't supposed to be Ned's father. Jon was.

There's a sudden pang in her chest, and she tells herself it's nothing. That it certainly has nothing to do with imagining Jon as Ned's father. That they'd made Ned together.

"Me," she finishes lamely. "Sleep through a nuclear war, probably."

One corner of Jon's mouth lifts in something close to a smile. "Or a zombie invasion."

She laughs again, pulling her ponytail over one shoulder and wringing the water from it. The hood of her jacket had fallen back at one point, and she frowns at the mass of wet hair in her hands. "Should probably cut this all off. It would save me a lot of trouble."

Jon folds his arms across his chest. "I could do it for you," he offers. "Repay the favor."

The barn feels too warm now, despite her rain-soaked clothes, and Sansa forces herself to meet his eyes.

"We should get back in."

"Sansa," he says, but she doesn't wait to hear what else he's going to say, rushing back out into the rain, suddenly needing to feel it on her heated skin. How in the hell had this all gotten so out of hand? Just a way of buying herself some time, of keeping the world from touching her and Ned for just a little while longer.

Instead, things had begun to feel...real. And as far as Sansa was concerned, that was more terrifying than a storm in the Vale or an army of dead men.

She can hear his footsteps behind her as she runs up the porch steps, and they're both drenched again by the time Sansa yanks open the screen door, dashing into the house. The only illumination in the house comes from the flashes of lightning, and as Sansa drips rainwater all over the hardwood floor in the living room, she glances up the stairs, listening for Ned. But as she'd expected there's no sound from his room. Still, Sansa takes a step forward, meaning to shrug out of her jacket and go check on him.

But before she can, something pulls her up short.

Turning, Sansa sees Jon standing there, his hand curled around her bicep. His wet hair hangs in his face, and he pushes it back impatiently with his free hand. His touch is cold from the rain, but his gaze is hot, and Sansa feels every nerve in her body light up in response.

When he kisses her, she can't stop the sound that rises from her throat. A moan, a whimper, a noise of pure _need_ wells up from inside of her as he kisses her, hot, thorough, so fucking good that it makes her knees watery.

Sansa doesn't even realize that he's pushing her backwards until her back hits the far wall. One hand shoots out to steady herself, and she hears the distant clatter of things hitting the floor as she nearly upsets a nearby bookcase. But she doesn't care. Let the whole house come down around her, just don't let him stop, don't let him ever stop.

So long since a man has touched her, and if she's honest, no man has ever touched her like this. Jon's tongue slides along hers, his hands shoving her soaking jacket off of her shoulders, and when it hits the ground, she wraps her arms around his neck, licking at the inside of his mouth, pushing closer, not caring how shamelessly she rubs against him. He's hard through the wet denim of his jeans, and Sansa can't pretend anymore. She wants his hands on her, his mouth, wants him to fuck her until she can't remember her own name, and if it happens right here in the living room, she doesn't care.

Jon wrenches his mouth from hers, his hand fisted tight in her hair, pulling her head back so that she has to meet his eyes. "You're lying to me," he rasps out, and it's a measure of how hot he's made her that even those words can't send a chill through her blood.

Sansa doesn't say anything, and they stand there, frozen, his hand in her hair, her leg hitched up against his side, both of them nearly panting. "I'd remember this," he tells her, his grip tightening. "I'd fucking _remember_ , Sansa."

"Jon," she says in return, hearing the plea in her voice. But whether she's pleading for him to believe her, or just kiss her again, she doesn't really know.

Maybe he doesn't either, because with a low groan, he presses his mouth to hers, his fingers falling to the buttons of her shirt. It joins her jacket on the ground, and Sansa has a brief moment of wishing she'd worn one of her prettier bras today. This one is just serviceable white cotton, but Jon looks at it- and at her- like she's wearing the finest lingerie.

She pushes at his own shirt, tugging it up and over his head, sighing with satisfaction as she moves her hands over the muscles of his chest and stomach. She'd seen him shirtless before. Hell, she'd seen him mostly naked the night she'd stripped his uniform from him. But there was a difference between touching him then, when he'd been pale and unconscious, and touching him now, his skin warm underneath her palms, his heart hammering, his gaze raking over her.

His hands are at the waistband of her jeans now, and Sansa tilts hips up from the wall to give him better access, but even as he fiddles with the button, he mumbles, "The bedroom."

Sansa just shakes her head. "Fuck the bedroom. Fuck _me_ , Jon. Please. _Please_."

The words are little more than a gasp, and when Jon kisses her this time, it's hard enough to bruise both their lips, but Sansa welcomes it. She feels desperate and unhinged, and when he moves his lips lower, kissing her neck, her collarbone, and finally suckling at one of her nipples through her bra, Sansa lets her head thump against the wall, her eyes squeezed shut as wave after wave of pleasure ripples through her.

She keeps her hands in his hair as he moves from one breast to the other, the pull of his mouth and the swirl of his tongue making her moan and circle her hips.

Jon's kisses move lower, along her stomach, his tongue briefly dipping into her navel and making her shiver. Sansa expects him to unfasten her jeans next, but instead, he kneels down, untying her boots.

Lifting one foot, then the other, Sansa lets him pull her shoes off, wondering what he's doing even as his thumb moves along the arch of her foot in a touch more arousing than she ever would have thought.

"What-," she starts, but he just looks up her, his face shadowed, hair still dripping wet.

"Shh," is all he says before finally unbuttoning her jeans. Wet, they don't come off easy, but between Jon pulling and Sansa pushing, they manage to get them off, and when Jon tugs her simple white underwear down her legs, she can feel his breath on her, and she gives a powerful shudder, hands falling back to his hair.

The first touch of his tongue hits Sansa harder than any lightning bolt, and she can't help but cry out, her neck arching, wet hair touching the middle of her back.

The storm continues to rage outside, wind and thunder shaking the house, and Sansa shakes, too, Jon's mouth between her legs, his tongue and lips moving over her, inside of her, until she thinks might forget how to breathe. Over her own cries and harsh breathing, she can hear his own appreciative moans, the slick sound of his mouth on her, and when Sansa comes, she does it panting his name, pulling his hair so hard it must hurt him, but he doesn't seem to mind.

She's still trying to catch her breath when he hooks his hands behind her knees and tugs, bringing her down to the floor with him.

Kneeling, naked except for her bra, Sansa twines her arms around his neck, kissing him and kissing him and kissing him, not caring that the hardwood hurts her knees or that he tastes like her. In fact, she finds she likes that, and it only makes her kiss him more, licking at his lower lip until he groans and drops his hands to her ass, pulling her hard against him.

"Tomorrow," he says, nuzzling her neck and letting her bear him down to the floor. "Tomorrow, you're going to tell me the truth about who I am, and who you are, and why I'm here."

Straddling his thighs, Sansa works at his fly, her hands still trembling. "Tomorrow," she promises.

His jeans and boxers shoved down, Jon reaches for her waist, guiding her as she sinks down on him.

It's good, so much better than she ever remembers sex feeling, and Sansa bites her lip as she begins to move.

With a low sound from deep in his chest, Jon holds her hips and she rocks over him, their eyes locked on one another.

"Why tomorrow? Why not tonight?" Sansa asks, surprised she can even form words.

Jon's hands flex against her skin, and she wishes she could read the look in his eyes. "Because tonight I want you to be my wife."

The words make her feel more than she should, make her _want_ more than she should, but she still nods and whispers, "I am tonight."

He nods in return, and she reaches down, taking his hands and laying them on her breasts. As his fingers move over her nipples, Sansa tilts her head back, letting her hips move faster now.

"You're my wife," Jon repeats, voice hoarse. "I've fucked you like this every night for years."

"Years," she agrees, and it shocks her, how easily she can see it. How eager her mind is to replace all those years of loneliness with this. That she'd spent every night with this kind, serious man with warm eyes and sweet mouth and skillful hands.

"And I can fuck you forever." His grip is tighter now and Sansa whimpers as their movements grow more erratic, as he drops a hand from her breast to find that spot just above where they're joined and rub.

"Forever."

He sits up then, cradling her in his lap, his fingers still on her, and Sansa shakes apart all over again, burying her face in his neck as he spills inside of her.

The rain pours down outside, and tomorrow, Sansa will have to tell him everything. And everything will change.

But for now, she presses a kiss to his sweaty temple and whispers, "Take me to bed, Jon."

## **

He’s a coward.

There’s no other excuse for why he’s made himself scarce today, the one day every few months Sansa’s friend Mya makes a trip to the farmhouse with supplies. But then he’s been a coward every day since that first morning he’d woken up in Sansa’s bed. He’d taken one look at her troubled expression and known, known as deeply as you could know anything, that she’d been about to tell him the truth.

That’s what he’d asked. He’d made her promise that after that night, there would be no more lies, no more pretending they were man and wife when clearly they weren’t. 

But when he’d woken up next to her in soft sheets that smelled like spring, the soft golden light of early morning turning her hair to fire, he hadn’t wanted the truth. He had just wanted more of what they’d had, more of her over him, beneath him, wrapped around him like a vine.

That morning, looking in Sansa’s blue eyes, he hadn’t given a good goddamn what they really were to each other. He’d only wanted to have a reason to keep touching her.

So he had. 

Maybe it was a lie, but it was a sweet one, and Jon had loved every second of it. Every morning that he woke up next to her, every day spent helping her around the farm, holding Ned, being a family. Every night that he bore her down to those soft and faded sheets and made love to her until they were both sweating and panting and replete.

It wasn’t all a lie, he’d told himself. Some part of his heart remembered her, even if they hadn’t been man and wife, hadn’t even been lovers. And there was one day, hanging laundry to dry with her, when he’d asked her to sing a song, something sweet about blue flowers that lingered in the back of his mind like a ghost. She’d gone a little pale at that, and Jon knew then that he’d heard her sing that song before. That she knew he was remembering something he shouldn’t.

But those moments were few and far between. For the most part, they lived in the present only, never talking about the past, never worrying about the future.

And the Mya came.

They’d watched her truck coming up the long, long drive, clouds of dust in her wake, and Jon had seen Sansa worrying at her thumbnail.

Mya, he had understood, would not know him. And that would shatter the illusion they’d built that Jon had always been here, Sansa’s husband, Ned’s father. He could have stayed at the house, seen the confusion on Mya’s face, listening to Sansa’s excuses, maybe moved to another room while the two women had a whispered conversation in the kitchen. But then he couldn’t have pretended anymore, and for all that Jon thought he wanted to know the truth, he wanted to keep playing this game of make believe more than that. 

So he’d headed out to the back forty before Mya had even finished coming up the drive, making some excuse about work that needed to be done, and tasting the relief in Sansa’s kiss before he’d gone.

Now, he stands in the shed far out of sight from the house, moving things around aimlessly. He’d had an idea of seeing if they had any barbed wire so he could reinforce the fences, but mostly, he’s hiding in here and he knows it. 

The thought should fill him with shame, but all he can feel is impatience to get back to his home. To get back to Sansa and Ned and the life they’ve imagined for themselves.

It can’t last forever, he thinks, moving aside some old flowerpots, but he can make it last as long as it needs to. He _wants_ it to last as long as it needs to.

He’s just about to leave the shed to prowl along the treeline when something catches his eye. There’s a dull gleam behind one of the pots, and when Jon shifts things around, he finds himself starting at a dagger, carelessly hidden on the very back of one of the shelves.

The blade is black glass, the handle wrapped in faded black leather, and Jon has a sudden memory of how that hilt feels in his hand. The leather is worn in places, he knows, even though he hasn’t picked it up. If he did, it would fit in his palm easily, molded to fit in his grip.

It’s his. 

His breathing is loud in his ears as he reaches out, as tentative as if the damn thing were a snake. Sure enough, his fingers curl around the hilt like they remember it even if his mind can’t.

But then, as he holds it, he closes his eyes, a sudden memory assailing him. 

_Black, everyone in black. Daggers in hands, laughing, his free hand thumping another man on the shoulder. “Sam the Slayer,” he hears someone saying, and he is smiling. He remembers smiling._

_“Dumb luck, really,” the man replies, and Jon can feel his heart seizing in his chest. He was proud of that person, proud of that moment._

_His voice. “Dumb luck, my ass. You’re good, Sam.”_

Good.

The word echoes, the memory fading, and then it’s Sansa behind his closed eyes, Sansa leaning against the kitchen sink as he knelt in front of her, his hands braced on her hips, moonlight spilling through a window, her nightshirt rucked up at her waist.

_“Good,” she croons. “Oh, god, Jon, that’s so good."_

His eyes fly open as he sets the dagger back on the shelf, heart pounding in his chest, his mind a whirl. 

The men all in black, pride and adrenaline rushing through his veins…it feels real and dream-like all at the same time. But Sansa panting and sweet in front of him…there is nothing dream-like about that. That was _real._

And good, just like she said. It’s so fucking good what they’ve made, whether it’s a lie or not. 

But if what he remembered is real, then he was in the Night’s Watch, and being here makes him a traitor.

A deserter.

Jon is still lost in his thoughts when the shed door slides open.

Startled, he turns to see Sansa standing there. She’s in jeans and one of those over-sized flannel shirts that had to come from someone else besides him. Ned is propped on her hip, and he grins at Jon, reaching out one sticky hand for him.

"Mya’s gone,” Sansa says lightly, but Jon sees her eyes stray to the shelf behind him. “Thought you might want to come back up to the house for lunch.”

He could confront her now. Could ask her if that dagger was his, and if so, why had she kept it? Hidden it? Why the _fuck_ was he here?

Instead, he smiles and nods at her, making a show of picking up some odd tools even as he shoves the pots back into place in front the dagger. “Right behind you.”


End file.
